Hell's Last Issue
by MsBinns
Summary: The same characters we know and love imagined in WWII Europe. Leo Fitz is an accomplished lab technician serving as as a private in the Glasgow Highlanders. Jemma Simmons is the bright and ambitious daughter of a shopkeeper who wants to serve the war effort however she can. Both are meant for something bigger when they meet in London in June 1940.
1. Chapter 1

"I expect you'll be wanting to join the Territorial Unit." 

The words had been innocent enough. It wasn't a command or an order exactly. But when Lieutenant Colonel Alistair Fitz of the Black Watch made a suggestion to his son like that there was only one correct answer. That was how it had been with his father since Fitz had been a boy. Even in letters from as far off as Egypt and India he could detect it. I expect you'll be wanting to join the club team. I expect you'll make top marks. I expect you'll be going to Edinborough. The tone was always implicit. Expectation and appearance were everything to his father. 

The truth was Fitz hadn't wanted to join a Territorial Unit. He hadn't wanted to join the Army at all. 

But war was brewing. His father had prophesied the conflict and the failure of peace long before the official declaration came. Sometimes Fitz thought, despite the horrors he had seen as a Captain in the Great War, his father desperately wanted another war. At the very least Fitz knew he wanted his son to have one. Only a war can make a man, his father insisted. 

He had urged his son to join the King's Army after he finished at university. He wanted him to attend the Royal Military Academy, earn his commission and, if he still insisted on being a man of science, join the Royal Engineers. The Army was where he could make a name for himself, he said. Wasting his time in a laboratory would do little to advance his station. But Fitz didn't want to be a Sapper and he certainly didn't want to be a leader of them. 

Yet here he was, a member of the 1st Line Territorial Army. A private who had graduated with first class honors in a platoon of lads from Glasgow. 

Joining with the Territorials had been an easy decision in the end. It certainly seemed better than enlisting with the Regulars. At least with the Highlanders he could keep his job in the laboratory and spare his mum the heartbreak for a little while longer.

The Government would want your brain not your body, his poor mum had insisted when he'd first told her he was joining up. The remark had earned a derisive snort from his father about what a poor excuse of a body it even was. At least be an officer, she had pleaded then, once war was imminent, wanting him to delay his entry into the service and stay safe as long as possible. She tried arguing that his intellect would be better served as a strategic planner behind the scenes; a remark that had earned another bitter laugh from his father about how Fitz wasn't fit to plan a tea party.

It had been a terribly uncomfortable dinner. His father's brief trips back to Glasgow always were. He can still remember almost every exchange. Both his mum's teary pleas not to join and his father's derision. The words from both parents are all he can hear on the troop train from their training camp at Carrick to Aldershot.

The Highlanders time training at the huge garrison in Carrick had been an eye-opening experience. Training weekends in Glasgow, even in the spring of 1939, had involved little training. It was more of a social club really, complete with billiards and reading rooms. He was a Saturday night soldier, a lab technician who knew how to march and that was about it. It hadn't involved much actual military knowledge and little sacrifice to his normal routine. That all changed when they mobilized and moved to Carrick Airfield.

In Carrick he'd been issued an Enfield Rifle and a gas mask. They'd gone to the range and fired actual bullets. They fixed bayonets and plunged them into dummies dressed like German soldiers. There had even been talk about visiting a slaughterhouse to practice sticking the bayonets into actual carcasses to get used to the resistance they'd feel when plunging them into a human body

Fitz had blanched at the mere thought. He tried to keep his abhorrence of violence and general squeamishness around blood a secret from his squaddies. He kept much of his life hidden from the people that were his new family. His job in a research lab, his degree, his father's position as a senior officer. All anybody knew about Fitz was he liked to read and he lived with his mum. He had no sweetheart and didn't talk about his mates back home.

He talks now though on the train to Aldershot. They're on their way to it, headed down south to a base even bigger than Carrick. He natters on about the flora and fauna in France, the conditions for a channel crossing, how large a wave it would take to capsize a troop carrier. It's more than anybody can remember him ever talking in over six months.

"Nervous, Fitz?" one of his squaddies laughs derisively, in a way that reminds him too much of his father. "Want to go back home to mum?"

"Piss off," he growls. "If you're not scared, you're a liar." There is no question about where they're headed. He knows anyone who says they're not afraid of seeing combat is full of it.

"Aye, Fitz is right," his sergeant defends. "We're going into combat, lads. It's the great unknown.

Combat. The word had been on their lips for months. It had been a vague idea. Something they could train for and imagine, but never really experience until they were there. Now it was becoming reality.

They muse about what it will be like, what they will do, how they'll react. All Fitz can think about are his father's last words at the station. I'll see you on the other side, he'd stated simply and that had been that. He tries to turn over what the words even mean. There had been a fateful lingering tone. Almost like his father didn't expect him to come back at all.

* * *

It's the last weekend pass he knows they'll have before they go across the Channel. One of his squaddies fatefully adds that it will be their last weekend pass ever and they all give a nervous laugh. Each news report issued from France casts more of a pallor on their training in Aldershot. The British Expeditionary Force is in an all out retreat. Staying in garrison, under lock and key, musing about where in France they'll be sent, how they'll do in combat and just how unstoppable the German war machine is has everybody on edge. It's why they need the pass.

He reckons they're a conspicuous group, a bunch of Scottish blokes tramping around the streets of London in uniform. He doesn't mean to lose them. He hopes, at least, they hadn't intended to lose him either. He knows he should be enjoying what may be his last night of revelry, but his legs just don't take him to the dance halls or pubs. They take him to the only thing in London worth seeing. The place where Faraday had discovered the basis for electromagnetism. Where Dewar had pioneered his work in molecular spectroscopy and Davy had all but invented electrochemistry. The foremost center of scientific research and exploration

He doesn't know how long he is standing outside the stately Corinthian columns of the Royal Institution before she arrives.

"Do you think they'd let me in if I knocked?" A lilty feminine voice sounds from beside him. He turns to see a young woman cupping her face against the glass and attempting to peer inside through the window. He doesn't know whether it's because he's been surrounded by blokes for six months, but he can't take his eyes off her. She isn't dressed in anything unusual, a blue polka-dot dress with a belted waist, and her dark hair falls gently around her face in soft curls. "Are you wanting to go inside too or are you just admiring the architecture?" He knows he's staring, but can't stop. He wills himself to say something, but finds himself mute and still unable to stop gazing at her. "Been awhile since you've seen a woman?" she teases knowingly.

"Yeah," he finally replies sheepishly and forces himself to turn his eyes back to the building.

"I've been inside it before, you know," she states proudly.

"Oh, me too. I went - "

"For a - "

"Christmas Lecture." They say the words in unison and he feels a smile instinctively spread on his face.

"My father brought me to my first one when I was eight," she beams at the memory. "We went every year."

"I always wanted to go when I was younger. Bit of a long trip from Glasgow though."

"Right."

"But when I was at University I came every year." He's not sure why he feels the need to explain himself to the stranger. He's not sure why he feels a strange flash of competition when she informs that she went to Christmas lectures too while she was at University either.

"Were you in London then?" He can't remember the last time a woman was this interested in anything he had to say, nevertheless a relative stranger.

"No, I went to Edinburgh."

"You went to Edinburgh?"

"I did." He puffs his chest out, sensing the incredulousness in her voice. "Why's that so surprising?"

"Just didn't see a pip." She glances to his uniform collar and the lack of a star. She'll ask him now, he knows, why a product of Edinburgh standing in front of the Royal Institute didn't become an officer.

She informs him she went to Bedford College and seems equally excited to learn they had attended the same lectures and had probably ridden the same train to this Institute. The conversation on the steps of the Royal Institute continues in a hurried, but excited fashion. He stumbles over words when he talks too quickly and interrupts her, but she interrupts him too. It takes ten minutes of conversation about the lectures they'd both taken in while at university before either even introduces themselves.

She's the first to extend her hand.

"Jemma Simmons."

"Leopold Fitz."

She shakes his hand with a surprising strength and firmness. He's slow to let go of it.

"Leopold?" She repeats in question. "Do people call you Leo?" He winces at the name only his father uses.

"Just Fitz actually."

She tells him she's from Sheffield, and when he inquires what she's doing in London her reply that she's just taken a test takes him by surprise.

"Like with a pen and paper?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't with a rifle," she teases.

"Obviously not." He rolls with the barb with surprising ease.

"It was a for a job my old maths supervisor recommended me for." She chews on her lip uncertainly. He's only known her an hour, but knows the look of uncertainty on her face well.

"You know what I like to do when I'm nervous about the results of an exam?" he asks and then doesn't wait for her to answer. "A crossword puzzle."

"A crossword puzzle?" she looks at him quizzically.

"You know, the cryptic crosswords from the Telegraph. They keep my mind...occupied," he admits, somehow sensing she is a young woman whose brain is always occupied too.

"Yes, but that'll only keep my brain occupied for five minutes." She blows out a loud sigh.

"You can do the Telegraph crossword in five minutes?" He can't help the smile that forms on his face then as he folds his arms across his chest.

"Usually."

"I can do it in four." He can't help his braggadocio.

"Four minutes?" She forgets about her exam then and sizes him up from head-to-toe in a way that should make him uncomfortable.

"Four minutes," he affirms, forgetting to be uncomfortable.

The challenge is implicit. He doesn't know who initiates it, but they soon find themselves on a quest for a Telegraph crossword puzzle so they can learn who can do it fastest. It's over three hours of wandering around London. The conversation is effortless. He wonders if it's the shared love of science or perhaps the Christmas lecture connection. He tells her more than he's told his squaddies in over a year of serving together. About growing up with his mum, and the machines he'd built as a child. He talks about not fitting in at school and hating every course that wasn't a science. She echoes almost everything he says. Whereas he usually struggles to say anything of interest to a woman, she is hanging off every word. They're perfectly at ease with each other in a way he's never been with anyone before, despite having just met this woman. They never find a Telegraph, but neither seem to care.

Somehow they eventually end up on a bench in Kensington Garden beneath a great bronze statue of Edward Jenner.

"You know, I'm surprised. I'd always heard the Scottish regiments wore kilts," she looks at his wool battledress.

"Only with the dress kit," he informs. "Bit impractical for combat." The lame attempt at a joke works and she just laughs and tells him she's only been to Scotland once.

"My family took a holiday to Perthshire. It was so lovely."

He tells her he's from Glasgow and that London is the furthest he's ever been from home. The talk of being far from home brings them out of the past quite suddenly.

The playful and teasing lilt to her voice she's had all night suddenly vanishes.

"Are you on your way to France?" He doesn't dare ask himself why he thinks he hears such trepidation in the voice of a woman he just met.

"I think so," he replies with a resigned indifference. He knows their sister unit in the 51st Lowland is already over there, fleeing to the coast as they speak. It's only a matter of time. He'll be in combat soon.

He wants to ask if he can write to her even though he knows it's silly. A girl as clever and pretty as her wouldn't be unattached. Still it would be nice to have someone to write to, someone other than his mum.

She talks about finding a dance hall with a forcibly cheerful tone, as if a night of dancing can wipe away the looming threat of where he's headed.

Instead they stay on the bench by the statue of Dr. Jenner. They keep talking about Christmas lectures at the Institute. He shares how he'd hoped after a few more years working at the University lab in Glasgow he could apply for a job at the Institute. She informs him that's always been her dream job too, but that she'd been forced to stay in Sheffield to help her mum and dad at their shop.

They talk about dreams deferred. Subjects they've always wanted to study and things they'd always wanted to do. She reveals the job she'd taken this test for, the one she's so nervous about, is somehow connected to the war effort. She finally asks the question sometime after midnight. Why a man who can do the Telegraph crossword in four minutes with a degree from Edinburgh was now a private in the King's Army.

"I mean I had to," he shrugged simply. "We're at war."

"You said you joined a year ago." They're prying words, meant to get at the truth behind his motivation in joining. He thinks for a moment about lying again, telling her the same things he'd told his mother about serving Scotland proudly as a Highlander. He can't make the lie form from his lips, but he can't seem to tell her the complete truth either. Out loud it seems far too foolish a reason.

So he tells her all about his father instead. His estrangement from his mum and service in Egypt, Palestine and India. He tells her about living with the scorn and disappointment of a man who believes him to be inferior in every way. In the end, he doesn't have to tell her why he joined. She's intuitive. She understands him.

Rather than question him further about it, she tells him, in turn, about the correcting cast she had to wear for her scoliosis as a child. How she'd been homebound for over a year and how her parents thought she'd fall far behind her classmates, but the opposite had happened. She tells him about being bored by most of her coursework, even at university, and longing for something more. It feels like she's talking about his own life and all he can do is nod fervently and agree.

"Not just a challenge. I want an adventure!" Her eyes shine brightly. They muse then over the adventure he's about to depart on, trying desperately to put a positive spin on the uncertain future he faces.

Sometimes before sunrise she takes his hand, gives it a squeeze, and asks him to write her.

He leaves Southampton aboard the SS Hantonia at 1400 hours on a Saturday in June and is sick three times before they arrive across the Channel at Cherbourg. It's his first time at sea and, though his legs feel like jelly, it's not seasickness that has him so ill. They sit in the harbour for hours waiting for the French authorities to finally allow them to debark. He keeps waiting to hear the bombers of the Luftwaffe screaming overhead or feel the ship list suddenly to the side when struck with a torpedo.

Leadership had tried to keep the news from France under wraps, but they'd all heard about the disaster at Dunkirk. He knows they're the rescue squad, but he can hardly believe a bunch of Saturday Night soldiers from Glasgow are here to rescue the British Expeditionary Force.

"You are the BEF now," their commander had declared firmly.

If it was supposed to be inspiring, Fitz isn't inspired. They haven't done any battle drills or preparation. He has no idea what to do if his platoon meets a column of German tanks. He has no idea what he's doing here.

He thinks about Jemma and the perfect night they'd shared in London. He'd penned a letter to her and his mum on the Channel crossing. Both letters are in the breast pocket of his uniform.

He had tried not to read too much into her request to write him. She was a warm, friendly person who had been kind to a soldier doomed for the front. Deep down he knows it's more than pity that had kept them talking all night, but somehow thinking that it's pity is more comforting than the alternative.

The roads are crowded with refugees fleeing west. It's a bizarre feeling to be heading into the place everyone is fleeing, especially when he just wants to flee too. They've been officially christened the 2nd British Expeditionary Force and their mission is to cover the withdrawal of what's left of the original BEF in France. He tries to memorize the sand tables and maps of the Cotentin Peninsula and Norman coast they'd received at the mission brief in Cherbourg. He knows they're hundreds of miles from the Germans, but the thought offers him little assurance. Their troop carrier seems to crawl along and, much like he had in the ship, he keeps waiting for the Luftwaffe to appear.

He thinks about his mum and feels awash in guilt at leaving her alone.

Then he thinks about Jemma and the adventure she'd spoken about. It gives him a strange sense of calm, thinking about her words about being meant for something bigger. He wonders what became of the test she took and if she got the position.

They drive all night and finally come to a halt twenty miles outside Rouen. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since they left England. He desperately just wants to put his head on a pillow, but he makes do with his rucksack. Despite the order to sleep, he doubts he'll get any.

He thinks first of his father when they dig in for their first night at the front, about his stories from the Great War, and his insistence that war makes a man better. He gazes up at the stars and thinks then about Jemma's story about her dad's telescope and all the constellations she'd memorised within the first week of having it. He finds Delphinus, Lyra, and Cygnus and is comforted by the thought that perhaps, even at this early morning hour, she's looking at the night sky too.

They spend two days doing little but cleaning weapons and manning observation posts. He writes to Jemma both days. He pours out in his letters much the same things he had that incredible night in London. He knows he can't tell her anything about what's happening here. He can't tell her how he heard German troops were close to Paris or how thinly-defended their 150 km front is. Nor can he reveal that his brigade has just come under the command of the Tenth French Army. So he tells her about the Norman countryside, the Calvados cider the French people had brought them, and the bizarre combination of boredom and fear that seizes his every moment.

It feels strange to think all his years of education have been to ready him to sit in a muddy hole cleaning the bolt assembly of a rifle he hopes he'll never have to shoot.

He writes to her and feels guilty a woman he's barely known one week now has two letters in his breast pocket and his mum only has one. He tells her about the sights in Normandy. The cows and hedgerows. The farms and swamps. He tells her about the squaddies he shares a foxhole with who worked in the foundries and shipyards back in Glasgow. He tells her about how despite months with this group that's supposed to be his family he still doesn't seem to belong.

They have little information about enemy intel and he keeps his head on a swivel at all hours. He expects to find the Germans each time he goes to relieve himself at the trench at the edge of their bivouac site or takes over as sentry. Soon Jemma has three letters in his pocket.

He's writing her a fourth letter when things begin to happen. Their sergeant barks a few brusque orders and he stuffs the half-finished letter back in his rucksack. They pack up quickly and march all night in the dark to take over the right sector of a front that's supposed to stretch all the way to the sea. He keeps an eye on the constellations and realizes they're traveling south. They travel muddy unimproved roads, marching further than any ruck they'd ever taken back at Aldershot. He tries to remember his training as he clutches his Enfield rifle and monitors his sector. They finally load up on trucks at a depot south of Rouen. He tries to ignore that he sees most trucks moving the opposite way they are headed.

They finally halt around sunrise, east of a tiny village called Conches. He can see the spire of the village cathedral in the early morning sun. He thinks about Jemma and how they'd watched the sunrise over London on that bench in Kensington Garden. Then he wonders what's happening in the tiny village. Whether the priest of that parish and the baker and schoolmaster will take their family and flee when they hear the front lines have come to their home.

"It's not the front line, you twat!" his squaddies laugh derisively. But that's exactly what this is. The Army of Paris is supposed to be holding the line all the way to the Seine. Fitz tries not to be unnerved that his lieutenant only says "supposed to". There is no confirmation that the French unit is actually in position. The LT is unusually honest and tells them all as much as he knows, which unnerves Fitz even more. They're in an exposed position. There's a gap of eight miles on their right flank. There are two brand new French battalions on their left, soldiers as wet behind the ears as they are. Their job is to maintain the line here until further orders. Most importantly, intel reports little enemy activity in the area.

He finishes his letter to Jemma and updates her on the latest happenings in his grand adventure. He tells her about marching all night and the small village to the west and how pretty France is. He knows she'll be able to read through his words. She'll see how the letter was interrupted. She'll know he's moved closer to the Germans and the fear he's desperately trying to disguise.

Word trickles through around midday that their brigade has been renamed the Norman Force. The troop carriers they'd seen moving the opposite direction as them had been the rest of the division, sent back to Cherbourg to cover the actual withdrawal of British forces. They are remaining to hold the line with the French Army. Fitz wants to know why it's them. Why the 1st Battalion, Glasgow Highlanders are the ones elected to slow the German advance.

They hear the place where they'd spent their first night in France has been occupied by armored columns of German tanks and that elements of the Tenth Army that they're technically now a part of have surrendered.

So many rumors are being exchanged and word is travelling so quickly, he tries to make sense of it all. The Wehrmacht is coming. The rest of the 2nd BEF is in all-out retreat. The Saturday Night Soldiers of the Highland Light Infantry are the ones left to hold the line. He thinks now about his mum's plea to commission, about his dad telling him to join the Engineers. He laughs at his erroneous belief that joining the Territorials would somehow keep him out of combat longer.

He looks around at the lads from Glasgow, thinking about their training exercises from Maryhill to Aldershot. He tries not to imagine what will happen if they don't hold this position. If the rest of the Army isn't able to return to England. If France falls and England is next. He thinks of his mum. Then he thinks of Jemma.

Then he hears the snap of a bullet.


	2. Chapter 2

There is no hero's welcome. Their return to Southampton is a relatively quiet affair, which is perfectly fine with Fitz. He doesn't know what he'd expected to feel like after his first experience in combat, but he hadn't expected to feel like such a failure.

There's an underlying feeling of disappointment and frustration, not just in his company, but in the entire battalion. All they had done was retreat. The job of the Highlanders had been to save what was left of the original BEF and to cover their withdrawal, but all they had done was retreat and save themselves. It was an entire week of withdrawal, one ten mile march at a time.

Fitz tries to think of any small victories in the days following their return. As a unit, the battalion of Glasgow lads had successfully manned the long thinly-held 130 mile line for four days. They'd held up under fire before the order to retreat finally came. As a soldier, he knew now the terrifying feeling of knowing enemy rounds were aimed for him. He'd even fired his rifle twice, though the only times he'd managed to squeeze the trigger, he'd been shooting blind without eyes on an actual human target. He'd hardly call it battle hardened. Mostly he feels like all he'd done was run away.

Of course, in the letters to his mum he'd told her it had all been very uneventful. Little more than a week long camping trip in France. He hadn't encountered any Germans and he certainly hadn't been shot at and fled from them. He tells her instead about the wonderful private billets here in Bedford that they've been allotted for two weeks of recovery, about the kind townsfolk and local caterers who are feeding them well.

Their only duty is guarding the local post office and the power station and neither are particularly arduous tasks. It's dull duty that his fellow soldiers hate, but he's happy to not be bombed or shot at and grateful for the dull monotony. He returns to the small flat where he and two other soldiers are billeted after pulling sentry all afternoon.

The town has opened its doors to the Highlanders. Every home with any available room is housing at least two soldiers. His landlady is a short matronly woman who has sent two sons off to the Royal Navy and seems eager to have young men in the house again. She greets him warmly as he arrives in and pulls off his service cap. When she informs him she's put a kettle on for tea and that she'll be doing the wash tomorrow it's a comfort that feels almost like being home.

"I also mailed your letters," she adds absentmindedly as she totters around the kitchen.

"My letters?" Fitz repeats in question, even though he'd heard her properly. "But they - I - I didn't ask - " he stammers.

"I know. I saw them sitting there by our bed and took the liberty, dear. The least I could do."

Fitz's mouth goes dry as he tries to thank her for the kind gesture. He'd wanted to send his mum's letters off, of course, but he had no intention of sending anything off to Jemma. The larger the stack of letters he'd written to her grew, the more embarrassed he'd felt about the attachment he'd clearly developed for her in a week's time. Inviting him to write her the occasional letter was one thing, but the pages of letters he'd written her were quite another. Removed now from the loneliness and terror that had gripped him in Normandy, he feels foolish having written so fervently to a relative stranger.

Likely intrigued by the numbers of letters he'd addressed to a single Sheffield address, his landlady can't help but ask if he has a sweetheart..

"No, not a sweetheart," he dismisses, though the words feel like a bit of a lie. "Just a friend."

Somehow, he's not sure if those words are even right either.

He tries not to think about her much as days crawl by and turn into weeks. He convinces himself that, beyond their shared love of science, there had been nothing there but civility and kindness behind her actions that evening in London.

The battalion soon leaves the comfortable private billets in Bedford and the landlady that reminds him of his mum. Instead they move to a camp in West Suffolk that they build themselves. Instead of four walls and a warm mattress, he shares a canvas tent with three other squads and has a stiff camp bed. The necessary steps they take to make the tent safe from an air attack, digging it in beneath the oak trees and surrounding it with sandbags, reminds him of what they'd just left behind in France. The terrifying thought that the chaos across the Channel could easily be brought here grips him whenever they hear the news every day about another airfield or radar station bombed by the Luftwaffe. He worries about his mum and hopes she's okay and not too worried about him. He tries not to worry about Jemma.

He wishes she would become a distant memory, that he could make himself forget the six hours he'd spent in her company nearly two months ago. He wishes he didn't have to fight the urge to write her everyday.

Their mail finally catches up with them in August. It takes nearly an hour to pass out the letters that have accumulated in the weeks since returning from France . There are four letters total for him when they call his name, three are from his mum. The fourth is written in script that should be unfamiliar, but somehow isn't. He recognizes it immediately. The graceful ordered letters are perfectly formed. He never knew handwriting could look like so much like a person before, but he doesn't even have to look at the Sheffield address to know it's from Jemma.

Somehow he resists tearing open the letter in front of his platoon. He tucks it away in between his mum's letters and returns to his tent, where he sits down atop of his foot locker and engrosses himself in a letter written nearly two months ago.

It's nearly four pages long. She tells him how wonderful it had been to receive his letter, how much she'd liked hearing about the countryside in Normandy, how she'd read the papers and tried her best to stay abreast of the events there, but nothing was very specific. She tells him to be safe and says she'll write again soon.

The following day a stack of letters, so large it earns several whistles from his squaddies, arrives. This time she doesn't try to be so chipper. She tells him how afraid she is, upon seeing the date he'd sent the letter, that he's become a POW. She briefly explains what became of her peculiar test in London, how she'd received a letter that told her to report to a remote Buckinghamshire village for a clerical position eleven days later. His heart soars at the thought that she's only in Buckinghamshire and curses that they're not still billeted in Bedford where he could have walked to see her.

The letters continue to pour in over the course of the week. His lack of a response hadn't deterred her from writing. While he had been embarrassed by his five letters from France, she has written him eighteen times in the last two months. Some are long and some are short. She talks about nothing and everything. Her landlady and the girls she rooms with. The book she is reading. Chamberlain's latest speech to the House of Commons. A crossword puzzle from the Telegraph falls out from between the pages of one of them. At the top she has written 5:18. He grins, recognizing the challenge and immediately goes to work.

He completes it in five minutes and twenty-two seconds and sends it back to her with a five-page letter. He apologizes four times for not writing her more upon leaving France, but doesn't know quite how to explain himself. He tries to tell her how they'd moved camps twice and how mail had been so slow to catch up. He tells her how he'd been in Bedford for two weeks and how sad he was to leave, how they built the camp here at Denston Hall from the ground up, and how much he's enjoying the monotonous life there.

It takes almost three weeks of stunted correspondence for their letters to sync up. Bombs begin falling on radar stations and RAF regularly by the time they can carry on a stilted conversation, and it seems like the invasion of the island is imminent. Her excitement upon receiving his first response is palpable. She tells him not to apologize and asks if he is allowed to leave the camp and could they perhaps meet in Cambridge sometime this month. His sergeant spots the corners of his mouth turning up as he reads the invitation in the letter and takes the piss about what could possibly cause Private Fitz to smile.

"Do the liberty buses run to Cambridge?" he asks, hoping the sergeant won't pry too much.

"They'll take you to Newmarket." Fitz can see he's suppressing a smile. "Are all those letters coming from Cambridge?"

"N- no," Fitz replies much too quickly. The sergeant seizes the letter from his hand and looks at the postmark with an ever-widening grin.

"Have you got a sweetheart, Fitz? The lads said they thought you might."

Fitz shakes his head vehemently and the sergeant just roars with laughter at his denial and walks away.

He's not alone on the bus to Newmarket the following weekend and has to endure the same series of questions from men in his battalion about what's waiting for him in Cambridge. He doesn't know how to respond to the questions about who he is meeting. A friend he'd met in London. A girl he'd promised to write. He's adamant about not calling her anything else.

His knees bounce nervously as he waits for her on the platform at Cambridge Rail Station, constantly adjusting his service cap and fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves. She sees him before he sees her, quickening her pace, and racing to him, making the crowd part for her.

"Oh, Fitz." The words sound in his ear as she exhales loudly and throws her arms around his neck.

"Hi."

Much like his measly five letters, his lame greeting does nothing to dampen her enthusiasm. She grips him tightly, longer than even his mum hugs him. His arms don't quite envelop her the way hers do. He stretches his fingers out, wanting to squeeze her just as tight, but paralyzed with uncertainty. Her frankness and unabashed emotion surprise him.

"I was so worried about you." The words are muffled into his neck and he shivers at the feel of her breath on him.

"M'alright," he dismisses, pulling away from the hug only because he thinks another moment of being pressed this close to her might cause his pants to tighten. "Just been digging ditches in Denston all week."

"I can't believe you're so close." She beams. "Of all the places to be stationed."

"I wish we were still in Bedford." He tells her about how his landlady had reminded him a bit of his mum as they begin to walk from the rail station. He doesn't seem to know where they're headed, but she seems confident in her direction of travel. There are few cars, which he knows is because of the petrol rationing, but it somehow makes it feel like the city has emptied just for them.

Reminders of wartime are there, mostly the touch of sandbags, and the sound of RAF training aircraft circling overhead, but the University is remarkably insulated. There are students punting on the River Cam and a small picnic by the brook. He asks if she's ever been here before.

"No, but I always wanted to." Her breath catches at the first glimpse of the College lawn.

"Me too." He smiles wistfully at the coincidence, wondering if they ever would have crossed paths if they'd attended University at the same time. Perhaps that would be them discussing a lecture under the trees. He wonders if she's pondering the same paths their lives could have taken as she gazes at the students, who somehow despite all that's going on look carefree.

"Do you think they'll come here?" Her voice is unusually small and quiet.

"Who?"

"The Germans." Now her voice is nearly a whisper and he can see now she's not gazing at the students, but at the sandbags piled up around the ground floor of a building. He feels stupid now for even having to ask her to clarify what she meant with planes roaring overhead and him clad in battledress. She makes him forget they're at war. He wonders if that's why he liked writing her so much when he was in France.

"No." He tries his best to sound confident for her. It seems to work because she doesn't ask any more questions about the war again. Instead she talks again about how much she'd wanted to attend Cambridge, but how her parents wanted her to go to a proper women's college.

"My father wanted me to go to Edinburgh," Fitz explains shortly. The remark sparks an inquiry from Jemma about where exactly his father is. "Last I heard the Black Watch was in Africa somewhere."

The short reply tells her all she needs to know and the questions about his father cease. He allows his mind again to wander, imagining a world where their parents hadn't forced their paths away from this place. A world where perhaps they'd found each other sooner and the world wasn't at war.

She tells him about the science journals she's been able to get her hands on in the last few months, babbling first about a paper on the bactericidal action of penicillin and then a Russian-American who has built an amphibious aircraft with a rotor configuration that flew straight up in the air. He asks more questions than she can answer about both, positing on the uses of both in wartime. Each time he makes an inquiry it seems to make her smile.

She doesn't talk much about her job. All he can get out of her is that she is a clerk of some kind. When he presses her for further questions, she loses her articulateness and begins stammering incomprehensible answers that don't make sense or changes the subject completely.

Now it's his turn to smile.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying!"

"I mean, really awful," he teases again at her overly impassioned denial. She's not laughing though. She looks pained, like she's in some kind of physical discomfort. They pause momentarily, halfway across a covered stone bridge somewhere by St. John's College. He comments on the neo-Gothic architecture and she tells him how this was one of Queen Victoria's favorite places to visit. The mindless conversation, the fact that they both know all the intricacies of this place, seems to put her at ease.

He doubts she is merely a typist at a radio factory, as she claims, but he also knows if what he suspects is true then she can't say anything further. And he doesn't know much about Jemma Simmons yet, but he senses she is loyal. So he doesn't ask the question he desperately wants to ask. Whether this interview she'd gotten back in June through her old Maths professor involves working for the Home Office. He just asks her if she can send him some of these publications she's reading and tells her to keep sending crosswords because they're tied now at three and have yet to determine who can complete it the fastest.

His uniform draws more attention than he'd like. He imagines soldiers don't frequently walk the grounds of Cambridge, remarking on Department Heads and professors he'd wished he had.

They pause atop another bridge, this one a unique curved footbridge built entirely of straight timbers. He remarks on what a brilliant bit of engineering it is and how clever the tangent and radial trussing is to make it appear curved. "You know the current engineering chair was the first ever Fellow in Mechanical Sciences at King's. He designed most of the bridges for the Metropolitan Railroad."

"You like bridges," she remarks with a smile.

"I just like building things," he shrugs simply. "I suppose bridges were the first things I ever built when I was small. You know, with blocks and things. I liked the idea of...supporting things. Making things of use. Things that will last."

"And yet you didn't join the Royal Engineers." She cocks her head in question. Sometimes he gets the idea when she looks at him that she's still trying to figure him out.

"Engineers mostly blow bridges up," he reminds her with a raise of his eyebrows.

"They can build them too."

"I think they blow up more than they build," he insists with a laugh. He doesn't want to spell out for her that the reason he didn't join the Royal Engineers was simply because it was precisely what his father had wanted, and for once in his life he didn't want to do exactly as he'd bid.

"How do you know so much about the chair of Engineering at Cambridge?"

"I told you. I worked in the lab at the University in Glasgow. Got to read quite a bit about what was happening in the field."

"And then you joined the Army," she mumbles the words to herself more than to him. She's trying to figure him out again.

"And then I joined the Army," he repeats anyway.

Two RAF planes fly in formation on a training run overhead. Two boys out on the lawn whoop and holler and wave as they pass by. Fitz can't help but think about how the pilots of the RAF have been exalted while his Battalion's return from France had gone almost entirely unnoticed.

"Seems like everybody wants to fly a Spitfire these days," she remarks, noting the adulation on everyone's face as they watch the planes fly by.

"Those aren't Spitfires, they're Hurricanes," he remarks calmly.

"And when did you join the RAF?" she sputters in surprise, but he can tell she's impressed.

"Mostly you can tell by the wings. See how they're not elliptical like the Spitfires. Also look close when it comes by again, at the radiator housing, how it's right below. It's not like that on a Spitfire." He notes the obvious look of wonder on her face and explains himself. "There's not much to do when you're pulling sentry except watch the planes that come round," he explains, though he knows none of the other soldier in A Company watch the aircraft with the same technical eye he does. He can sense from the way she's looking at him that she knows that too. "The sound of the Spitfires too. The engine. You hear it once when it comes to save your arse you don't forget it." The words are the first he's spoken about his time in France and she grows quiet, but much like he hadn't pressed her on whatever work she is doing for the government, she doesn't press him.

When they pass the ruined buildings and rubble from an air attack on the way to the Rail Station, she links her arm around his. He tells himself it's simply to steady herself as they walk past the uneven terrain, but she doesn't remove it when they return to the smooth pavement. Even as they arrive at the Station she seems reluctant to let go of him. He wants to ask if they're courting, but lacks the courage. They make plans to see each other again soon, but neither can say when.

* * *

Letters back and forth between Camp Denston and Bletchley fill the time in between his next visit to Cambridge. He writes her nearly every day and receives a letter just as frequently. Neither can tell about the work they're really doing. Instead they exchange crosswords and talk about their days. They write a little about the war. About the Italians in Greece, U-Boats in the Atlantic and the Japanese in Indochina. Neither want to talk about the bombs that fall daily and the terror that grip the country. The fear and uncertainty is obvious in nearly every word. He thinks perhaps that's why they comfort themselves with scientific certainties and theories they can reason through. He doesn't know how she has access to so many published papers, but she seems to enjoy sharing the summaries with him and hearing his thoughts. One is all about rendering serum chemically stable by freeze-drying it. He writes back about the possibility of applying the same process to other pharmaceuticals, maybe even food and laughs about how much his field rations could improve. Other times it's about the synthetic rubber she hears the Americans are manufacturing for tires, which makes him wonder if they will be used on tank tracks going to Africa.

Always the letters are signed with the same formal farewell. The two words that tell him they are most certainly not courting. Y _our dear friend, Jemma._

There's an attachment there that speaks to more than friendship and scientific inquiry though. When he tells her he's saved up his wages to come and visit her in Bedford, her happiness is obvious through the pages. The actual letters on the page are more rushed and hurried, like she can't wait to tell him how excited she is to have him there. Likewise, her disappointment is clear when his leave is revoked after an abrupt move from Camp Denston to the stables at Newmarket. Her words are forcibly cheerful, trying to make it seem as if there aren't forty more kilometers between them now. Still he's determined to see her again.

There are two air raids along in as many weeks. His battalion helps support the anti-aircraft defenses for two straight days, but the Luftwaffe don't show up in full force. Then there's word the invasion is finally coming and all four Battalions in the Division stand to for nearly a week. Still he's determined to see her before they leave for Winter Quarters.

It takes three buses and nearly four hours to travel to Bedford with most of his time being spent waiting to catch the next bus. He thinks about what he'll say to her when he sees her after two more months of nothing but words on a page. There's evidence of air attacks in the little town he called home this summer. Two months ago the village was untouched by the war aside from housing a battalion of Scottish infantrymen. Now there are piles of rubble where he knows rows of buildings used to stand.

"It's awful." Jemma looks out at the wreckage. "Everyday I hope maybe that'll be the last of it."

"You haven't had any air raids, have you?"

"See a few planes fly over, but that's all."

"That's good." He's relieved to hear whatever she is doing she seems as insulated as the students at Cambridge. "Two bombs fell on camp this month, but nothing - "

"You were bombed?" she cries out in alarm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He gives a dismissive shrug and reminds her that he's been bombed before, to a much more terrifying extent. He can see she looks upset by the news and asks her what's wrong.

"You just...never really talked about France."

"Not much to tell really."

"I didn't know you were bombed."

"Everyone that was in France was bombed," he states matter-of-factly. He wants to add that lately everyone in England is getting bombed too, but he senses that will just make her more upset.

He remembers all too well how small her voice had gotten when she'd asked him if he thought the Germans were really going to invade.

Sometimes he has a hard time believing that it's been five months since he ran from the Germans. She's right. He hasn't talked with her about France at all. There's so much about his time there he's never shared with anyone. He knows he'll never tell his mum, but sometimes he wants to tell Jemma about the waves of people and mass of undisciplined rabble they'd had to push through. How they'd had to leave so many people behind. He still remembers the pitiful fleeing caravans they came across that had obviously been attacked by the air. The sight of overturned hand-barrows and broken heirlooms, the dead horses with their legs straight up in the air. The corpses. He'd never smelled death before and hasn't been able to forget the sweet sickly aroma since.

"I think we're moving to Winter Quarters soon," he tells her abruptly.

"Winter quarters? Where will that be?"

"Don't know. Been hearing north. So probably back in Scotland somewhere."

"Oh." Her disappointment is as evident as his. Still she tries to smile. "That'll be nice, won't it? To be back home. Maybe you'll get to see your mum.'

He just smiles and nods his head, hoping it can disguise the obvious. He wants to tell her he'll miss her, how letters and a crossword won't be nearly enough.

"I'll write you as soon as I have a proper address," he says instead, hating himself for being such a coward.

"Please." The plaintive request makes him wonder if she wants to say something more.

She doesn't.

They sit in silence for a moment on a bench by the bus depot. He doesn't know how to say goodbye and it seems like neither does she.

"Do you really have to leave so soon?" she asks instead, though he knows she knows the answer.

"It takes three buses to get back," he informs unhappily.

"Right," she replies glumly. They both sink into silence. The island is being terrorized from the air. He's not sure what the future holds, whether the invasion will really come, whether he'll go to Winter Quarters or down to the Mediterranean. He knows two months isn't a guarantee.

"Jemma - "

"Fitz - "

They utter each other's names at the same time and speak the next words in unison.

"Be safe."


	3. Chapter 3

The entire battalion huddles in the Newmarket station for over an hour, waiting for the train to take them north. Fitz recalls a similar situation months ago that somehow feels like years. Then they'd been preparing to move in the opposite direction, off into the unknown. He had been a bundle of nervous energy, jabbering to anyone who would listen about all the different ways they could be killed before they even arrived in France. This time it's their commander who is on edge. News that the Luftwaffe were targeting railyards to hinder troop movements causes him to do nothing but pace and fret. Fitz can hear him hissing to the other company commanders about the idiocy of having six-hundred infantrymen congested on the platform. Fitz knows it wasn't supposed to be like this. His company had arrived here two hours ago, their captain constantly glancing at his watch and insisting they would be the first company to depart. But as minutes ticked by, no trains came, and more companies had arrived. The carefully arranged staggered arrival turns into a disorganized mass of soldiers. It seems somehow fitting.

The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. He writes to Jemma, musing about how fitting it is that a Scot should have coined the phrase.

He wants to be excited about being back in Scotland, but mostly he's frustrated. It's not just being further from Jemma. It's that going north somehow feels a bit like retreating and retreating is, so far, all that his battalion has done. There's talk about a force headed to North Africa and a possible naval attack on the Italians, even a joint operation with the Greeks. The RAF does battle every day with the Luftwaffe, but the soldiers of the Highland Light Infantry are heading back home to Scotland.

When he first learns they're headed to Perthshire, he's embarrassed his first thought is that it's the one place in Scotland Jemma said she has visited and not that he'll be 130 km from home. The battalion is spread out around the small village of Comrie and the entire Highland Light Infantry is supposedly stretched from Edinburgh to Aberdeen.

It feels a bit like their time in Bedford, only without the private billets. Each company has their own private canteen run by the ladies of the town though and Fitz eats the best he has since he joined. There's talk about Christmas dinner and intercompany football matches. Aside from an initial brief by the Commander about manning the defenses of something called the Scottish Command Line that they haven't even seen there's not much discussion about what their job or training will involve. They're not going anywhere, that much he knows. Their attempt at a ground campaign on the continent had failed miserably. Their job now is to prevent an invasion.

He writes Jemma as soon as he gets an address just like he promised. He tells her about how good it is to be back in Scotland. His company is the only one in the battalion stationed across the River Earn in the little town of Dalginross and he describes to her how the High Street reminds him a bit of Bedford. He tells her about the steel bridge that links his company with others, hoping it will be a fond reminder of the many bridges they'd walked across that perfect day in Cambridge. It seems an age ago. He tries to describe it all, the iron railings that serve as parapets and the four stylish ramps that rise above the sandstone piers. He crosses the bridge daily and can't help but think about her each time he does.

He receives her letters at a regular rate, at least three each week, and writes to her with the same frequency. The threat of an invasion seems to have subsided with winter storms making conditions on the Channel too rough for a crossing. Still the air raids don't subside. In fact, they begin to hit Scotland on a more frequent basis. They are small towns with no strategic importance and seem to do nothing but instill fear in everyone, which he assumes is the point.

He worries more about his mum than he does himself. Upon his insistence, she writes and tells him the location of every air raid shelter within 2 km of their home. He writes her careful instructions about what to do if she is caught out in the open, how to keep her mouth open and lie down like they've been trained to avoid the blast overpressure that could cause her lungs to burst. His mum's letters give a stark picture of life back home. She tells him about the strict regulations, the curfews, blackouts and rationing.

Jemma's letters, on the other hand, seem remarkably insulated from the war. She still says nothing about the work she does. He wonders if she realizes how obvious her silence is. Instead she talks about how the girls she works with had a music recital and how they had smuggled a barrel of cider into the house where they're billeted. It sounds a bit like university and he tells her so. She, in turn, tells him about her University days in London. So he tells her about his experiences at Edinburgh.

The conversation is harmless and distracting. Each letter feels like that night he met her outside of the Royal Institution. They share favorite lectures and theorems and classmates who had never quite understood them. When he sits down to read her letter he doesn't worry about the bombs that fall on Scotland daily and the threat to his mum. They're 46 miles from the coast and the talk every day in the canteen is about the possibility of Hitler invading from Norway. Still the pace of their training doesn't quicken. Road marches and trips to the rifle range don't command nearly as much intensity as the talk of a boxing competition in the battalion or who will win the division football championship.

It's a week after the fact when he hears about Sheffield.

The first letter, written in the immediate aftermath, assures him her family is okay. The Germans seem to have focused on the steelworks, far from the neighborhood she calls home. The letter that follows the second raid three days later makes him feel as helpless as he had leaving France. Her father's shop, her family's livelihood, has been completely destroyed by incendiary bombs.

He doesn't know how to respond. For the first time in a year and a half in uniform, he is hit with the urge to go AWOL. Her note is short, formal and detached, relaying what details she knows and that's all. For a week she writes him about nothing but the damage done to her home. The two raids hadn't just targeted the steelworks. It hadn't been as bad as Coventry, but it certainly wasn't a strategic raid. 154 schools are hit, 3 hotels full of people, hospitals, churches, even the Brammal Lane football ground. Her letters take on a decidedly different tone. They lose their levity for nearly a month. Gone is the talk about going to the dance hall and ice skating with her coworkers. Even his letter telling her about Christmas with his mum and Hogmany with his squaddies doesn't draw much of a response from her.

Instead she starts talking about the possibility of joining him in service in the Women's Royal Navy Service. Then in the next she wants to quit her job and go back home to help her family. All her wages start pouring back to Sheffield. The shop had major structural damage and her father lost almost all his inventory. Fitz asks lamely if there's anything he can do, knowing there isn't.

Despite the horror, there is a steely resolve and firmness to her letters that he admires. Her letters convey more anger than sadness. There's a will to fight that somehow makes his heart swell with pride. Talk about joining the WRENS doesn't dissipate, but she maintains that the work she is doing is important.

He echoes that wirelesses are important to the war effort, despite his continued certainty that she doesn't work at a factory that produces them. He even goes so far as to recount her with a story from his time in France about the wireless, the first he's ever shared about his time over there.

He paints a vivid picture for her, surprised at how easily the memories he'd tried to forget return. He explains how it came after their first night on the line. They already felt isolated in their hasty defenses, positioned on the far-left flank, with B Company on one side and, supposedly a French unit on the other. Nobody had heard from or seen any evidence of the French unit. For all they knew, the Germans had already gotten them. Enemy sniper fire, though fortunately inaccurate, ensured nobody slept. Morning arrived with few soldiers having slept and everyone on edge. Rumors passed down the line, first about a German attack on the main road and then about a complete withdrawal back to the port of Cherbourg 200 km away. Many of the men were ready for the former, eager to have their first proper battle, while many like Fitz had been more than happy to retreat in the face of the, seemingly unstoppable, German war machine. All they'd heard in their week in country had been about units retreating and towns falling to the Germans. All they'd seen were signs of defeat.

That's when their wireless had stopped working and the inexperienced subaltern had panicked. Paralyzed how to proceed with the withdrawal, or even if they should without official confirmation, he had ordered the entire platoon to remain in their defensive positions until they received word from higher. So while the rest of the Company had retreated from their thinly-held 150km front, A Company 4 Platoon stayed in place, with the Germans drawing ever closer. It was his sergeant who, knowing Fitz's background as an engineer, had ordered Fitz in to try to get the wireless working. He tells Jemma with utmost certainty that getting the communications working had most definitely saved them from capture.

The intent behind his story is to affirm that, if she is indeed working in a wireless factory, she is an essential part of the war effort. However, all Jemma sees in the letter is that he had saved his platoon. She heaps praise on him, asking how he'd kept his nerve, what the problem had been, how he'd diagnosed it, and what exactly he'd done to get it working.

He tells her all about the short-wave wireless set, the bulky pack receiver in its pressed steel case with its hand-cranked generator. She asks about the RF output and frequency range, asking if he's ever opened it up to look at the vibratory unit and accumulator.

The technical inquiries make him smile. He's never met anyone whose brain works so much like his before. Despite having a background in medical sciences, she clearly seems to clearly understand how a wireless works. He wonders if perhaps she does truly work at a factory that makes them.

Talk about short range communications and Wireless Set #18 seems to comfort her, or at the very least distract the from the destruction of her home. He's standing outside the postal office, leaning against the wall and reading one of her letters, unable to stop a grin from forming on his face. She is telling him about a film she'd seen in the cinema, describing in detail the ridiculous plot about three drunken sailors who accidentally climbed aboard a German ship. It's rare she spends money on herself since the raid on Sheffield and, despite how silly she seems to have found the film, he's pleased to read about the indulgence.

"Private Fitz?"

"That's me," he mutters absentmindedly without looking up, reluctant to put down the letter. She's talking now about how the film's portrayal of the philandering sailors had ushered in a conversation later that night about the passions and libidos of men in uniform and his interest piques.

"You need to come with me." The brusque order causes Fitz to finally look up and he snaps to attention and renders a salute upon realizing the men addressing him is the company executive officer. He's had minimal interaction with any of the company officers in the nearly two years he's been in the service and feels his palms immediately start to sweat, despite the lieutenant's command to stand at ease.

He leads Fitz down the High Street to Company Headquarters while Fitz's brain races at what could possibly cause him to be summoned by the officer. He knows this wouldn't be the protocol if something had happened to his mum and wonders if perhaps there has been news of his father. Instead, as soon as they're behind closed doors the man asks him about Jemma, whose letter is still clutched in Fitz's left hand.

"Jemma?" The name is the last he expected to hear from an officer.

"Yes. Jemma Simmons. The woman you write to every day."

"She's a…friend," Fitz stumbles, trying to ignore the incredulous look on the lieutenant's face.

"Yeah? Why are you telling her all about our wireless sets, Private?"

"Our wireless? I just...she - she works at – a er – it's a wireless factory - where she works." He stammers incomprehensibly, still so caught off-guard by the mention of Jemma here of all places.

"And what does she do at this factory?"

"She's a clerk."

"A clerk who you inform how to float charge the accumulator on our receivers..."

Fitz feels his cheeks redden. He should have known better than to put that kind of information in a letter. He'd been so thrilled to talk

"She - erm – she just likes the sciences and – well - knowing how things work, like - like me," he admits, attempting to speak with a bit more composure, but knowing he's failing miserably. He's never had a conversation this long with an officer. And while the lieutenant doesn't seem antagonistic, he certainly doesn't seem pleased with Fitz.

"So I've heard." The young officer purses his lips and stares at Fitz. "You're an Edinburgh man, no?" He doesn't wait for Fitz to reply. It looks like he already has his service record pulled out on the desk, along with what looks like one of his letters to Jemma. "So do you have an arrangement?" he asks then. "You and Miss Simmons?"

"How do you mean?"

"Are you engaged? Do you have some kind of romantic agreement?"

"What? No, I – I told you we're friends."

"She writes you every day, private." The incredulous look reappears on the lieutenant's face. Fitz says nothing in reply, just stares at the clock on the wooden desk, watching the seconds tick by, knowing his silence is likely only incriminating himself further, but unsure why his relationship with Jemma is being called into question by the company executive officer. "Your squad leader said you were quiet." The lieutenant smiles and leans back in his chair then. "Well, as long as you're not trying to insist Rangers are superior to Celtic." Fitz can't tell if the attempt at levity is proof of an investigation into his background or simply an attempt to get to know him in that clunky way officers sometimes do. "Look, I don't have to tell you we're vulnerable right now." He gets serious again. "Bombing raids every night. U-boats spotted off the coast. Most of or equipment left in France. There's a tremendous emphasis right now on identifying any…subversive elements."

"She was upset because there was an air raid on her home and it destroyed her family's shop and she said she felt helpless and wanted to do more and I was trying to - I don't know - help somehow," Fitz blurts out without taking a breath. He knows what the officer's words about subversive elements had been hinting at and he's eager to dispel the notion that he or Jemme are disloyal in any way. "So I thought I'd tell her how important the wireless was to my platoon in France. I told her how we couldn't retreat until it started working again and she was curious what was wrong with it and how I fixed it and we just got to talking about how it worked. And, sir, she's not – I'm not – "

The officer motions with his hand for Fitz to halt his rambling explanation, actually chuckling at how quickly the words now tumble out of him.

"Relax, private, I believe you. This is just a warning." Fitz blows out a breath he didn't know he was holding and promises not to do it again.

"Yes, let's ease back on the letter writing, shall we?"

"I'm not allowed to write her?" He makes no attempt to hide the sudden panic in his voice.

"You can continue to write her." The amusement in the officer's face is evident.

"But…" Fitz knows there is some kind of caveat.

"Maybe ask about the weather instead of divulging information about sensitive equipment." He hands the letter in his hand back to Fitz. Fitz can see entire sections he had written are blacked out.

"Right." He quickly folds it up and shoves it in his pocket.

"And Private?"

"Yes, sir."

"Be careful."

"She's not a Fifth Columnist," Fitz can't keep himself from laughing at the mere thought that Jemma is secretly sympathizing with the Germans.

"I didn't mean about that." The knowing look in the young officer's eyes somehow makes Fitz feel the most uncomfortable he has this entire conversation. He dismisses Fitz before he can stammer out a protest of any kind.

Fitz waits until he's far from the Company Headquarters before he finishes Jemma's letter. She'd been talking about that silly film with the sailors and the conversation about the desires of men in uniform. He turns the pages only to read about how she'd proudly declared to her friends that she'd spent six hours in the company of a soldier headed for the front who had been, and continues to be a perfect gentleman interested in nothing more than friendship. She means it as a compliment, he knows, but the words have as deflating an effect as the ones she signs each letters with. Perhaps the lieutenant is right to be wary.

He writes more perfunctory notes. Part of it is the knowledge that his private letters are being combed over by the censors, but part of it he supposes is a bit of self-preservation. He still writes her on a regular basis, but they're remarkably impersonal. She seems to notice it and asks repeatedly if everything is okay. He simply relays that he is busy and tired, but all is well. Despite his shortened notes, she continues to unload everything on him.

Somehow, without divulging anything that she actually does, her letters are mostly about her work. He can't help but think, despite how little he knows, that her days seem strangely similar to his. There's the obvious boredom laced with fear, but it's also what she says about the people she works with. She tells him she's surrounded by debutantes who, while certainly refined, don't provide much in the way of stimulating conversation, a sentiment he understands all too well. He can talk football with his squaddies just fine, but even the other university graduates lack the intellectual curiosity and sophistication that Jemma possesses.

He is the only person, she tells him, who she truly confides in. He finds it funny. They've spent barely sixteen hours together over the course of three days, and yet the people who are strangers are the ones they live, work and sleep alongside.

 _I want to see you_. His ink pen hovers over the page, but he can't make himself write the words.

Sometimes he is astonished that a soldier can lack so much courage.

Instead he tells her how he thinks training exercises will likely ramp up in the spring when the threat of invasion rears its head again. The days of sports and games will be replaced with division-wide exercises and a more intense training regimen will begin. His privilege leave will probably not be approved in a few months and he ought to use it now. Whenever she does, he knows she goes back to Sheffield to see her mum and dad. Out of necessity, her father has taken a job in the steelworks, which seems to break her heart. She worries about him working in such a physically demanding position at his age. Fitz doesn't know how to propose she spend her valuable time and money to come and visit him.

So they write about the war in the Western Desert and muse about whether Fitz will depart for the Balkans or the shores of Africa. Then in March Glasgow is bombed. Despite the fact that they are ordered to stand down, the whole battalion nearly deserts. Fitz is one of the few who listens and remains in Comrie. He spends three horrific days waiting to hear news from his mum. He writes to Jemma only to keep his mind occupied, but he's unable to keep up his defenses. He tells her everything she probably never wanted to know about his mum, how she's his entire family, how she'd essentially raised him alone, and every job she'd ever worked. He even writes about the turbulent relationship with his dad, who is neither a husband nor a father, while he waits to hear news they can finally go to Glasgow.

The destruction is shocking. The naval, shipbuilding and munitions plants may have been the targets, but the collapsed shells of buildings he sees all look like tenements. Dunbarton Road has been reduced to rubble. It looks worse than towns he'd seen in France. The roads are still blocked with debris, made perilous by falling masonry and likely unexploded ordnance.

His mum is, of course, as fearless as ever, assuring him she'd been fine. They'd targeted Clydebank and the docks mostly she says, but he can see a giant crater in the Great Western Rd and evidence all around that hell has come to Glasgow. He's relieved to see she's not lying about their home. It remains untouched. She's taped the windows from corner to corner to prevent shards of glass from flying in and, while Fitz is impressed, he insists they can do better.

He applies a combination of cheese-cloth and washing-soda he assures will work better than sellotape. She asks after Jemma while she boils water on the cooker for the treatments before she asks about anything else up in Comrie with his unit

"She's fine," he admits. His mum had kept her queries about Jemma to a minimum at Christmas, mostly because the twelve-hour visit had been so brief. She'd inquired after the woman who had begun making appearances in her son's letters though and was as incredulous then as she is now that they're merely friend.

"You still courting her?"

"I'm not courting her, mum," he grumbles much like he had in December.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Is she sure?" she continues to badger.

"Mum!" he complains like a child. She just laughs at his adamant refusal, but Fitz bristles at the sound. It reminds him too much of the young lieutenant's series of questions and words of warning.

"You know Buckinghamshire is an easy train ride from here. You could be there by morning," she maintains, ignoring his grumbling yet again. She'd always been this way. Doggedly persistent and always trying to make his life better, even if it was at her own expense. He supposes that's where he gets it from, this stubborn refusal to stop whatever this is with Jemma. His squaddies know he spends his time writing to a woman. They know only a quarter of the letters he gets at mail call come from his mum. They all either accuse him of lying about the nature of his relationship with Jemma or call him a stupid sod for wasting his time. But he feels at this point like he couldn't stop himself from writing her if he tried. She makes his life better. It's evident even to his mum.

He speaks freely then, in a rare moment of candor, telling his mum how he'd gotten in trouble for writing Jemma about the wireless. She scolds him for doing something so foolish, especially when he recounts the details of his subsequent conversation with the company executive officer. Fitz tells her what he's long suspected then. That she's not a spy or a Fifth Columnist, but he's sure she does something beyond work in a wireless factory. His mum inquires what makes him think something like that.

"Because she's brilliant, mum. She's absolutely brilliant and there's no way she's just a clerk."

"There's lots of people doing jobs a bit beneath them to serve the war," she says pointedly and he knows she's talking about him. He still remembers how desperately she'd pleaded with him not to join, how even his argument that it was only the Territorials hadn't helped. He'd hated disappointing his mum, but thinks deep down she'd known that joining the Highlanders was something he'd had to do, as much for himself as anything. His father's disapproval had somehow only made it easier.

He leaves for a few hours while she gathers up her ration cards to prepare supper, walking around his city, studying all the damage his mum hadn't told him about. He visits his old primary school now being used as an ARP station and auxiliary fire service and goes to the West End to see the university where he used to work, whose windows have been blown out.

Back in Comrie, his brief time in France had begun to feel like a distant memory. Despite the news about nightly raids elsewhere in Scotland, they hadn't seen so much as a reconnaissance plane. He can't tell if it's a good thing that he had been starting to forget the terrifying scream and siren of the Stuka bombers. Being in Glasgow and seeing the huge craters and destruction is a stark reminder how quickly terror can reign down from above.

Having surveyed the damage of the city, and seeing firsthand that Germans had targeted much more than the shipyards, he refuses to return to Perthshire until he's sure his mum is adequately prepared for the next raid. He spends the next day building a shelter in the small garden for her and the neighbors with corrugated steel panels. Despite her protestations that she will be fine using the communal shelter down the street, Fitz stays until he is satisfied with his finished product, going so far as to include a drainage sump to prevent the buildup of rainwater. His skill designing the shelter doesn't surprise her, but she is impressed at how quickly he digs th rectangle. When he quips that digging is, so far, the one thing at which the army has made him proficient, she just wipes a smudge of dirt off his face and tells him how proud she is of him.

She does the same the next morning on the train platform, hugging him tightly and muttering that she doesn't know what she'd do without him. He echoes the same. Neither speak of his father.

It's difficult saying goodbye, having seen firsthand the damage the Luftwaffe has caused. If his mum is frightened she certainly doesn't show it. Still he assures her he'll come visit again soon. She just orders him to save his leave days to go and see Jemma.


	4. Chapter 4

After the Glasgow raid, he and Jemma share not just a mutual love of science in their letters, but a mutual hatred of this war and anger toward this enemy, who bomb mothers and shopkeepers, tenements and schools. She is angry for him. That steely resolve in her letters returns. The one that sounds like she wants to take on the Germans singlehanded.

The bombings of Glasgow and Clydebank cause the mood in A Company to shift as well. The war is personal in a way it wasn't before, not even when they were on the receiving end of German sniper fire. Because the Highlanders experience in France had been all too brief and chaotic. The Germans had pursued them, but they had all escaped unscathed. He'd never laid eyes on an actual German soldier. Somehow now, after helping his mum fortify their family home from German bombs, it all seems much closer. When word comes that they'll be joining with their sister battalions for a month-long mountain training exercise, most men are excited to get out of garrison and be real soldiers again.

Even Fitz looks forward to, at the very least, a change from the monotony of life in Comrie. Perhaps it is a week in the mountains outside Aberdeenshire, digging foxholes, hauling a rucksack and a rifle that give him the courage to initiate a weekend in her company. He looks at the date while writing Jemma and realizes it's been nearly a year since they met. A year of friendship developed from words on a page. He wants to ask her to meet him on the steps of the Royal Institution. They can do the crossword head-to-head and sit beside the statue of Jenner late into the night. But she can't get the time to come to Scotland and he can't make it all the way to London and back in a single day and he's starting to believe they'll never get a proper chance to see each other again unless he plucks up the courage to ask. It's fourteen hours to London, but only six to Sheffield by rail. So he asks if she plans to see her parents at all this month and, if so, he'll be there.

* * *

He leaves for South Yorkshire so early Saturday morning it's still Friday to most of his squadmates. But he doesn't have a 48-hour pass and he needs to be at final formation Sunday so he needs to make the most of every hour. He tries to remember the last time he saw her back in Cambridge. Somehow nine months have passed since then. Nine months of being bombed and preparing for an invasion that, thankfully, had yet to come. He runs his hand along his jaw, wondering if he looks any different. Despite the countless defensive fortifications he's helped prepare, he's probably no bigger than he was in November. The uniform still hangs on him, looking baggier than ever after months of constant wear. They'd just had an inspection so his hair is shorter on the sides and in the back than it had been in the fall, He fidgets with the map pocket on his left thigh, opening and closing it over and over, as he awaits his arrival in Sheffield.

He can see her through the window when he pulls into the station. She's sitting on a bench with her hands folded in her lap. Her hair looks longer and straighter than he remembers. He wonders how long she's been waiting for him. All he'd been able to tell her two weeks ago was that he would take the morning train. When she sees him through the window she offers a wave and a smile. When they embrace, the hug is warm and familiar. It doesn't take him by surprise the way it had the first time back in Cambridge.

"Good to see you" is all he can say and it feels like a huge understatement, but she just echoes the same.

She asks about his mum. He asks after her parents. They fall into step and begin walking. It feels strangely intimate being in her hometown, and not just because they will have lunch with her parents in a few hours time. It feels like showing him a part of her. She shows him the museum that suffered a direct hit back in December where she'd used to visit with her father. Then it's the ruined public library where she'd spent many of her weekends. They even walk to the grammar school she'd attended, a grand three-story building with three great cupolas. She tells him details about her time there, about silly school traditions and playing Rounders on the lawn. Mostly, she tells him how much she hated attending an all-girls school where science and maths had hardly been emphasized. She'd constantly been encouraged to pursue a different more feminine pursuit.

They've discussed this in letters, of course, about being frustrated with professors and wanting more from their education. It's different to talk about it in person though. He doesn't have to imagine her reaction or wait weeks for her reply. When he speaks to her about all the supervisors in his life - at school, at work, and the army - who have constantly told him to stop questioning everything and turn his brain off from time to time, she laughs. Though he hadn't intended the comment to be a humorous one, he's so pleased with the sound of it that he laughs too.

"I'm sure being so cerebral isn't exactly a positive trait in the Army," she chuckles.

"Not really," he laughs, but admits he's learned to conform to life in the Territorials. She scowls at the mere mention of the word conform. The look of disgust on her face is something he knows could never be conveyed in a letter. He wonders how many times she's been told to conform in her life and wants to apologize, even though he knows it's not his fault. Instead, he tries to convince her that learning not to ask questions isn't so bad. He keeps his head down and does what he's told. Life is simple, certainly less solitary than it was in the lab back in Glasgow. He admits to her then, what he knows she's probably already reasoned out from his letters. That his fellow soldiers, though he has little in common with them, are the closest he's ever come to having friends.

"Oh, I always had friends." He feels the briefest flash of embarrassment at her immediately reply to his pesronal revelation. "I just never found anyone terribly interesting. Not at University, not even now." Her face twists into a smile then as she looks to him. "Until I met you, of course. Private Fitz." She says the words with equal parts admiration and wonder like she's still figuring him out.

"That's me," is all he can mumble awkwardly in reply. He wants to tell her it's much the same with her. That he's never connected with anyone or opened himself up to someone as much as he has with her, even if it has been mostly through pen and paper for the last twelve months.

"I still don't see why you didn't…." Her voice trails off before she can say more, but he knows what she's going to say. Somehow nearly every letter and every conversation always comes back to this. They've been at war for well nearly two years now. Nobody questions why he's in uniform except for Jemma.

"I just wanted to do something different," he repeats the same simple response he feeds to her in his letters. He's never properly explained his motivation, mostly because he doesn't think he can really explain it. He's left enough hints about his father's disdain and insistence that Fitz couldn't possibly be a real line soldier and infantryman. He's also tried to tell her how an Engineer in the army doesn't really do much engineering. "Being a sapper's not really much different from what I'm doing now," he informs with a shrug and an attempt at a smile.

"But there's other jobs that someone with - there's other jobs that someone like you could do. Outside of the Army." There's more than a hint of frustration in her voice.

"Yeah, like what? Work at a wireless factory?" When he says the words there is a teasing tone to his voice, but she doesn't reply with the same joviality.

"You'd love it there, Fitz." Her simple reply is filled with an unexpected sadness that he wants to press her about, but doesn't. There are a million things he wants to say to her, things he's always wanted to put in a letter but can't figure out how to say. Instead he blurts out that the Army thinks she's a Fifth Columnist.

"What?" she laughs at the absurd comment.

He explains it's because of their conversation about the wirelesses. She laughs loudly and responds that she wondered why he hadn't responded to her theory about how to improve the reception time.

"That's why you never responded?" she asks. "I thought maybe you thought it was a terrible idea."

"No, it was a brilliant idea," he admits and then recounts how he'd been summoned by the executive officer and ordered to cease writing about sensitive material. He wants to tell her how the lieutenant thought they had a romantic agreement and see how absurd she finds it, but doesn't. "They just - they censor my mail now."

"So have you worked with the wireless any more?" she asks as she rises from the bench and they continue walking around the grounds of her school.

"Not much."

"Do you ever get to work on anything?"

"Anything?" Her vague inquiry puzzles him.

"Like weapons?"

"Weapons?" It's his turn to laugh now. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not my job," he admits simply. " I'm a - "

"I know, a rifleman," she finishes his sentence with a sigh.

"What?" He can sense an irritation in the way she says it.

"It just - it seems like a waste is all."

"A waste?"

"You're the most brilliant person I've ever met. And, believe me, I work with a lot of clever people." Fitz feels the tips of his ears redden at the compliment. "And you're - what? digging ditches and guarding postal stations?"

"We're at war," he shrugs simply. "I'm defending Scotland."

"You're wasting - "

"I'm wasting talent?" He raises his voice without even realizing it. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're a clerk!" There is a clear challenge to his voice that is asking her to tell him he's wrong. Suddenly, it feels like the closest they've ever come to disagreeing. He's not sure how her simply inquiry about whether he gets to work on wirelesses has gotten them here. "You're the most brilliant person _I've_ ever met." He turns the words she'd spoken about him around. "And you're what? A typist at a factory?"

"I'm serving the war effort," she states much calmer than him. Almost like she's rehearsed it.

"And I'm doing what exactly?" he challenges, pressing his hands to his uniform.

"Fitz, I'm not - I'm not saying what you're doing is - "

"You just said all I do is dig ditches!"

"That's all you ever say you do!" she laughs.

"I just told you that's because anything else I write won't be allowed through the censors!"

"I just think you could do more."

"Well, so could you," he challenges.

Neither speaks for a long time. The silence seems an odd way to end the argument, if that's even what to call it. Their shoulders sag, both seemingly admitting that the other is right. They're both serving the war effort, but somehow not doing enough.

They walk some more around Sheffield. The damage from the two raids back in December is more obvious in some places than others. He wishes the tense conversation would fade, but he can't shake it, even when he goes to her home.

She doesn't formally introduce him to her parents. All they say is "wonderful to finally meet you". The remark makes him wonder how much she has told them about the random Scottish soldier she'd met in London a year ago. They don't ask many questions. They already know he went to Edinburgh and that he and Jemma met outside the Royal Institution last May. They know he joined the Territorials before the war officially began and that he spent a few weeks in France. His mum asks about his father, but later he can overhear Jemma in the kitchen scolding her mum about how she'd specifically instructed them not to ask after his father. It's clear she's prepared her parents to meet him, and if they're confused about who he is to her they don't let onto that fact at the table.

They have tea and biscuits, which are really little more than flour and water. They're decorated with a bit of cinnamon and sugar too that must have been left from the previous week's ration. Not knowing how else to repay them for their hospitality, he offers to take a look at the Anderson shelter in the garden, the one he remembers Jemma reporting in her letters is always damp. Though they insist there is no need, he spends the better part of an hour out in the mud beneath the corrugated steel panels.

He feels like it's the least he can do to thank them for opening their home to him. They sit out in the garden while he works, talking to Jemma about her job and her coworkers and friends there. He's grateful Jemma can't see the scowl on his face that forms when she describes the clerical work she says she does. If they are lies she is telling, he's impressed at how convincing she's gotten. She does a much better job than that afternoon in Cambridge.

He can tell her parents are immensely proud of their only daughter. They're proud of her accomplishments and proud of her service, however menial. He thinks about his own mum's words, about people doing whatever they can to serve the war effort. Her parents don't ask questions or seem to have any reason to question whether she does anything else.

He tries not to eavesdrop later in the evening while he fetches his tunic to leave, but he can't help but overhear her speaking with her mother in hushed tones. She comments on how lovely and quiet Fitz is and how he must care for her if he took the train all the way down here to see her and meet her parents. Then she asks her daughter whether anything has changed with somebody named Milton.

Jemma spots Fitz around the corner before she can reply.

"I'd best be off." He motions for the door, thanking her mother and father profusely and trying not to get caught up on who Milton might be.

Her father shakes his hand and wishes him good luck. Her mother insists he take the rest of the biscuits back with him and, much like Jemma, tells him to stay safe. They both insist he visit again soon when he can.

Jemma takes her time walking him back to the station, but doesn't say much. Both clearly recall the uncomfortable conversation outside her school while they wait for his train and the silence between them isn't as natural as it usually is.

"I know you do more than dig ditches," she tells him suddenly.

 _I know you're not a typist,_ he wants to say. Instead he just apologizes, insisting he knows that the work she does is important too.

"I want to tell you." Her voice wavers and she wipes her eye with the heel of her hand. "More than anything." It's only when she sniffles and takes in a gulp of air that he realizes she's crying. "You know, it's easier to lie to my parents than to you."

Somehow it feels like the most intimate and telling thing either has said to the other. Unsure how to respond to the honest words and confirmation that his suspicions all year have been correct, he just mumbles something about how nice her parents were.

"Well, they've heard a lot about you," she offers a sad smile.

"I could tell." He tries to smile back. "I'm glad I came down."

"Is it going to be nine months before I see you again?" When she looks up at him he can see her eyes are still pooling with tears. He doesn't know now whether it's about lying to him or leaving him.

"Don't know," he shrugs helplessly. "We'll probably move again before summer's over."

"Maybe back south?" she reaches out to adjust the lapel of his uniform then, patting him on the chest. It's the first time she's touched him any way other than a hug and it sends a shiver through him. She leaves her hand there, over his heart, pressed against the buttons of his tunic.

"Probably not," he admits only because he knows they're not that lucky. The Scottish Command Line extends north to Aberdeen. If they're going anywhere they're probably going north.

"But you're not going...I mean, you're not…" she stammers over the mere thought, he knows, of him being sent into German occupied territory.

"I just go where they tell me." The helpless utterance doesn't seem to help stem the flow of tears. She gives a pitiable laugh as her hand flies to her face and she attempts to compose herself.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm so - "

"It's okay," he offers lamely in understanding.

While his mum hadn't cried when they'd said goodbye over holiday, she certainly hadn't been eager to send him off again. This war is going terribly for everybody but the Germans. The Afrika Korps is on the march to push the whole British Army out of Egypt, the Germans are in Greece and every morning's newspaper seems to report about another convoy of the Royal Navy that's been hit. The _blitz_ still continues and nothing seems safe. Even Westminster Abbey had been hit this month.

Having never seen Jemma cry before, and unsure what's even the root cause of it, he's not sure what to do. He worries that wrapping his arms around her will only make her cry harder. As much as he wants to assure her he's not going anywhere, those are promises that are beyond his power to uphold. One of their sister battalions is being sent to North Africa in the next few months. The Glasgow Highlanders could easily be next.

Fortunately, she seems to compose herself. She reaches out to place her hand on his chest again and takes a few steadying breaths. This time he can't help himself from looking down at the sight of her hand resting over his heart.

"You'll be safe?" she asks, like always. Her voice is still shaky, but the tears have at least seemed to dry.

"Digging ditches in Comrie? I'll be fine." He tries for levity. "Maybe I'll get to London before the year is up," he says hopefully. His squaddies have been talking about a proper trip for months, but privilege leave seems to be drying up faster and faster lately.

"Or I'll get to Scotland," she offers a brave smile that, when combined with the mere thought of Jemma in Scotland, widens his own. He stumbles over what to say as he can hear his train approach, knowing their time together is dwindling down to seconds now. Both try to be positive in the face of terrifying uncertainty. "Take care," he tells her over the sound of the engine roaring into Sheffield station and then breaks his own word about not making promises because he doesn't know what else to say. "I'll see you soon."


	5. Chapter 5

He relives their goodbye in Sheffield over and over. Sometimes it's muddied with the conversation about his wasted talent outside her primary school. Sometimes it's the sound of her mum's voice commenting on how much he clearly cares for her. Each time he receives a letter from Jemma he relives that moment on the train platform. He hasn't said the words, but he's all but promised himself to her. He doesn't go out with his squaddies to the dance hall in Comrie when they have a night off. He doesn't chime in when they talk about the prettiest girls in the village. His platoon gets a new NCO who even assumes, despite the absence of a ring, that Fitz is married because he acts so little like a single soldier.

He looks at the date one day while writing Jemma and realizes it's been over two years since he joined the Territorials. Two years since he made the reckless decision in the spring of '39 to somehow spite and simultaneously please his father and become a soldier.

There had been a time back when they'd first been mobilized when he'd wanted to learn everything he possibly could about the unit he was serving in and the equipment they used. He had never spent much time around firearms growing up. So when he first joined the Highlanders he read every book and manual he could on how the Enfield rifle functioned. As their training intensified, he'd done the same with every new weapons system in the unit. Access to the Bren gun and Mills bombs was difficult, but he read what he could to learn all their components too.

That technical knowledge certainly helped him some, but beyond stepping up to fix the wireless or jams in rifles on the firing line, he's pretty unremarkable as a soldier. Just another Highlander in drab battledress flooding the fields of Perthshire. Perhaps it's Jemma's words back in Sheffield or perhaps it's the fact that her letters start to make more mention of Milton, whom Fitz is far too timid to ask about, that make him finally act on his ideas.

He wants to create something.

It starts with a visit to the company armorer and an inquiry whether there is a spare Enfield he can modify. The armorer has a laugh, only because based on his own performance and his own admission, Fitz is a notoriously bad shot.

"All the modifications in the world won't help you shoot straight," he teases.

"No, probably not." The dismissive way Fitz says it seems to pique the armorer's interest because he manages to find a rifle that hasn't been issued. He informs Fitz it frequently misfires and was going to be cannibalized for parts anyway.

"So I can have it?"

"Well, you can't leave the armory with it, but I suppose, yes, in here, it's yours."

Fitz grins and picks up the faulty rifle, looking over each section from the stock to the front sights with wonder. There are so many possibilities, so many variations and modifications he could make. Like anything, it all begins with research. He studies everything. For an entire week he focuses on only the barrel, its internal dimensions, conditions and pressure points. Then he examines the iron sights and the front and rear aperture. Improved accuracy should come first, after all. He fills a notebook with sketches on different trigger assemblies and action screws. He spends so much time there the armorer gives him a key to the shed so he can spend what free time he has working with the faulty rifle. There's so much he wants to write Jemma. His letters simply say he's _learning new things_ without any additional detail, hoping she'll understand.

Only the armorer knows where he spends all his time. The old corporal insists on seeing the result of his first round of tinkering and, after two months, takes him to a makeshift range. Whereas Fitz is usually nervous on the firing line, anxious about qualifying and embarrassed at his ineptitude with a rifle, he is now remarkably calm. This feels less like shooting on the army's terms. This is testing something of his own creation. He fires three shots into a piece of cardstock 25m out, which by itself renders the armorer speechless. He demands to know what Fitz has done to keep the rifle from jamming when chambering a round. Fitz mumbles something about the magazine spring while he makes adjustments to the windage knob. While his shot group is far from perfect, the armorer's curiosity is piqued. He insists Fitz get on with it and shoot at the real targets further away.

Settling into a prone position, he takes several steadying breaths. Spare ammunition is hard to come by and he knows he has to make these shots count. He has to prove he's done something with the rifle if he wants to continue this work. Pulling back the bolt, he takes aim and squeezes the trigger at the bottom of his breath. The loud ping of the can, indicating he has hit the target over 300m down range, renders the armorer silent. Fitz isn't sure whether his speechlessness is due to Fitz's marksmanship or the fact that the rifle has now fired five straight rounds without jamming, but the next day he brings Fitz a Bren Gun that has been giving 8 Platoon fits. The following week it's a Webley revolver their company commander carries.

He finally reveals to Jemma that he's become the armorer's apprentice. Her questions, however vague she tries to make them, about the nature of his work still go unanswered, though he does his best to try to fill in her queries. He hopes she'll understand.

Her letters speak about the same banal activities. She'd gotten a trim and shampoo in town for 4 shilling and sixpence. She'd gone for a bike ride in the country and the village hop on Saturday night. They'd eaten Welsh rarebit on Monday. He finally learns Milton is a sophisticated Etonian who'd attended Oxford and majored in maths.

The frequent mention of Milton when discussing such activities just sends Fitz deeper into his work. In whatever free time he has, he works on whatever the armorer gives him, but the rifle becomes his singular focus. What began as a little tinkering here and there, begins to consume him. Fitz fills an entire notebook with pages of sketches and ideas.

The rifle begins to look less and less like the other standard issue rifles. He fiddles with ways to make it lighter and shorten the barrel, going so far as to read upon gunsmithing and to visit the town welder. He attaches a piece of leather to the buttstock to improve the recoil, removes the locking lug for the bayonet to improve accuracy, and even works on improving the stock bedding. His own issued rifle feels strangely unfamiliar in his hands when his unit conducts a six-day march. All he can see fit to tell Jemma in his letter is that he's made something truly great.

Knowing better than to ask questions about what he's making, she continues to talk about work. She talks about changing billets in July and complains about being exhausted all the time due to her shifts constantly changing. He tells her how glad he is for his new project, how it feels like coming out of hibernation after months, years even, of doing nothing. His brain is constantly working. Ideas come to him all the time, a different kind of round at breakfast, a muzzle modification at first formation. Sometimes it's a completely novel design for a new detachable telescopic sight he dreamt up while pulling sentry duty.

The threat of invasion seems to pass when they hear about the German invasion of Russia, but it doesn't do much to raise morale. News of defeat in Crete at the hands of vicious German paratroopers makes it difficult to stay positive and German bombing runs over to Clydebank still continue. Jemma speaks admiringly of the many women in uniform who work alongside her and Fitz senses the urge to do more come through in her letters from time to time. He wonders when he reads them if her words about wasting talent hadn't been rooted in her own frustration.

He's agonized for so long over what it is she actually does that her teary confession in Sheffield had been difficult to process. She makes no mention of it her own letters, but he knows how easy it is to hide the truth.

When his unit begins lending NCOs out to train the Home Guard, it is Fitz's turn to express frustration in his letters. As the oldest and longest serving soldier in his section, he's unofficially promoted to Lance Corporal and placed in charge of the two other privates. Maintaining accountability is a pain and he hates every minute of being in charge of anybody. Despite his constant reminding that it's only temporary and not official, Jemma and his mum both heap untold congratulations on him, their pride obvious in the words they write. He's prouder of the work on his rifle than on the two privates he has to babysit, but he knows he can't tell her more.

His unit's close work with the Home Guard brings into question the quality of the ad hoc weapons they use. The leader of the local volunteers, an aging captain who still wears his wool uniform from the Great War, argues that if they're meant to be the last line of defense should an invasion come, they really ought to be armed better. Word of Fitz's rifle modifications and work on the Bren Gun gets out thanks to the loose lips of the armorer. Fitz soon finds himself spending nearly the entire month of September working to improve and redesign cheap weapons for the local Home Guard units.

His work is so good it soon becomes his official duty. He misses a ceremonial detail at Glamis Castle, complete with a visit from the Queen and Princess because he has to assist the Home Guard in somehow turning two old World War I sixty-pounders into anti-aircraft guns. He writes to Jemma, simply saying he was no longer filling a Lance Corporal spot and had been pulled away for an additional detail. He can't let on that he'd much rather be tinkering on the old artillery piece than guarding a castle. He hates not being able to tell her the niche he's started to carve out for himself here. For the first time, he's beginning to feel like he has a purpose in the Army and he hates that he can't tell her why. All he can do is hint at their conversation in Sheffield and say it's no longer such a bad thing to be so cerebral in the army.

In the late sticky days of summer, his company finally leaves the town that's been their home for over a year to move into camp 160 km closer to the coast. He can tell Jemma nothing save the fact that they've moved. She'll figure it out when she receives his letter and sees the postmark. Fitz continues his duties with the the Home Guard, seeming to be more a part of their units than his own. His squaddies laugh when he hums along to a popular Noel Coward ditty about the Home Guard. It's a clever little song about the real shortcomings they face in munitions and equipment, about old veterans from the Great War fighting with an arquebus from Waterloo and a Vicar fighting with a pitchfork and a stave. The song gives him an idea. He writes some of the lyrics to Jemma, telling her they're his favorite lines and how he can't get them out of his head. He cites them in another letter, telling her he's been working with the Home Guard and hoping she'll put the pieces together.

She seems to miss his point and writes instead about her favorite lines from the song, which he's at least pleased to read she's heard. For some reason the thought that they're listening to the same songs despite being over 600 km apart comforts him. It seems to comfort her too because she begins writing him the names of favorite songs that help keep her spirits up. They're all songs he has heard, but _Down Forget Me Not Lane_ and _When They Sound the Last Clear_ take on a new meaning when he thinks about Jemma listening to them too.

Summer turns to fall and they leave Perthshire to take over from the Royal Scots in East Lothian, thirty kilometres outside of Edinburgh. He loves the thought of being so close to the place that had been his home for four years. All he can think about is asking her to come visit. They're billeted outside a pleasant seaside resort in a mansion with a fine ballroom. They have dances where the same songs Jemma has been sharing with him in letters are always playing. Each time Vera Lynn warbles about never being apart, he can't help but simultaneously think of Jemma and wonder whether he's a complete fool for doing so.

He hates being the one always suggesting they meet. Milton still hasn't disappeared from her letters. While his name rarely appears by itself and is usually accompanied by her other shift partners and what they'd done to amuse themselves that weekend, it still irks him.

Fortunately, his work is more rewarding than it's ever been. The jokes from his squaddies about being more a Home Guard soldier than a Highlander become reality. He's given an official posting to design and improve weapons for the Home Guard. He has his own garage where he works on everything from hand grenades to hunting rifles.

There's a degree of autonomy and freedom to his work. Sometimes it's converting shotguns and hunting rifles. Other days it's developing anti-aircraft weapons. One week he's even brought to a motor pool in Leithe where he's tasked with making improvements to an armored vehicle. Sometimes he works with mechanics, sometimes he works with a gunsmith, but mostly he works alone.

His official job is to help the Home Guard, but he's backlogged constantly with requests from soldiers in the unit. His visitors range from a private who wants him to fix a faulty compass to the battalion commander who wants a mount for a Bren Gun in his personal transport. Sometimes the requests are impossible with the resources he has, like the sergeant who requested glasses that would somehow allow him to see at night. He's simultaneously flattered and annoyed that his fellow soldiers think he can design anything. Though he explains to the sergeant that he can't possibly construct glasses like the ones he is talking about with the supplies he has on hand, he becomes obsessed with the idea of creating a telescopic sight that worked at night. The more fantastic ideas make him desperate for Jemma's opinion.

His letters can't begin to convey how pleased he is with the work he's doing. It gets wearing, describing the trivial details of his day, what he'd eaten for breakfast and the weather yesterday afternoon, but not the ideas that fill the pages of his notebooks.

The visits from the higher-ups start around the holidays. First it's a Colonel in the Home Guard then it's the Commander of Regional Command East, then it's a Polish officer.

"This is Private Fitz." Fitz overhears a young lieutenant say while clearly giving a tour to another high-ranking officer. "He's our little monkey. Keeps the whole Home Guard supplied and makes us anything we need." Fitz doesn't look up from the work he's doing until the junior officer barks at him that they have an international visitor. Fitz snaps to attention and waits patiently. Usually all that happens in these visits is he answers a few simple questions about himself and is left to work. He knows any time a private meets anyone above the rank of lieutenant it's usually a forgettable experience for the latter anyway.

This is an American however. Fitz wonders if perhaps that's why the junior officer is so eager to impress. It's the first Yank they've seen in Scotland.

"You build weapons for the Home Guard?" The American officer asks.

"Yes, sir."

"So are you the one responsible for the anti-tank guns I've seen all over this island?"

"I've made quite a lot of anti-tank guns, sir. Can you describe it to me?" Fitz remains at attention and the American officer scoffs and waves his hand in dismissal at the formality and tells him to relax. He describes a gun with a smoothbore barrel that fires a three inch shell about 300 yards.

"Sounds a bit like something I made back in August." Fitz scratches his chin. "Effective range of mine was closer to 1,000 yards though.

"1,000 yards?" The American officer whistles. "Who'd you make it for? Who'd you submit it to? The Ordnance Board?"

"The Ordnance Board?" Fitz laughs. "No, I just...work here. Sent it off to...whichever Home Guard commander asked for it."

"Do you have the schematics for it around here?" The Major seems highly intrigued.

"Probably." Fitz remains standing at ease and only after the Major motions for him to go search for it does he begin rummaging through his desk.

"The one being mass produced now. I'm pretty sure it's a structural engineering firm that designed it. They got a huge contract for it."

"Yes, well," the junior officer nearly interrupts the American major. "Private Fitz isn't - he's no structural engineer."

"No." The major takes the schematics from Fitz's hands and looks them over. His expression isn't hard to read. This American wears his emotions more obviously than any officer Fitz has ever seen. "I'd say he's worth about ten structural engineers. I can only make sense of...about half of this, but are these telescopic sights for use at night?"

"It's just an idea," Fitz mutters in embarrassment.

"How would this idea work?"

"Well, theoretically it would use an infrared light source to illuminate the targets. There'd be an anode and a photo-cathode in the tubes there. I think I could use a combination of cesium and oxygen for it - " Fitz can see halfway through is rambling that the officer doesn't have any idea what he's talking about. Still, he is smiling and he seems very impressed.

"You think you could really make that?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Not here." Fitz laughs, motioning around to the mess of a shop where he works.

The young lieutenant, now clearly annoyed at being upstaged by a private, seems eager to leave Fitz's shed.

"The Colonel is expecting you by 1300, Major Coulson. We ought to continue on."

The major shakes Fitz's hand. Then they're gone and he's back to being alone in his shop.

The encounter is intriguing enough that Fitz writes to Jemma about it. He tells her that he met an American officer. He tells her how affable and informal the man had been, disinterested in every military custom and courtesy. He tells her how interested he was in Fitz's work, even the most ridiculous designs that he'll never come close to building here. He knows she is desperate to find out what he is working on and is pleased when she asks in more than one letter when he'll be granted leave next.

She has two weeks of holiday this year and Fitz hopes he's not reading into the letter when he detects a hopefulness about how to spend it. She throws out numerous options that she and her friends are contemplating. He's pleased they don't all involve going to London. There's talk of a trip to Wales and more than one about journeying to Scotland. He feels his heart pound in his chest at the mere thought of her being here and reads the letter twice to make sure he's not imagining it.

There are no dates. Nothing is fixed, but she seems more keen on traveling to Scotland than anywhere else her friends have suggested.

 _How wonderful it would be to see you again._

His smile as he reads the words is so noticeable that the old armorer sees him and laughs.

"You get a thousand pound patent for that rifle or what?"

"Might have a friend come visit is all." He folds the letter up.

"Oh? That wouldn't be the same lass that writes you all the time?" the armorer continues to tease. As private as Fitz tries to be, it's no secret that his name gets called more than anyone's at mail call.

"Maybe." He's not trying to be coy with the vague dismissal, merely refusing to get his hopes up. He's heard the talk about the battalion moving again to do mountain warfare training. He knows better than to pin his hopes on staying here long enough so that his path might cross with Jemma's.

He's not sure how he even fits into his unit anymore. He takes his meals in the garage and spends all day away from the squaddies that he'd gone to France with. He technically belongs to the unit unit, but is apart from them in every way.

He's relieved when the official posting comes through. He wonders if it is the American Major's doing. He has no idea what unit the Major is with or who he is friends with, but Fitz is given an official posting as an enlisted advisor from 2nd Battalion working on weapons research. His pay doesn't change, nor does his uniform, but he leaves their garrison in Lothian and is instead billeted in Edinburgh above an ironmongers. He is still required to wear his uniform, but nothing else is at all like life in the army. His first line supervisor is a retired Commodore now serving in the Home Guard and he reports to a civilian named Clarke, who checks in with him weekly. It's a far cry from working in the armorer's shop with a supply sergeant.

As always, he can't tell Jemma much aside from the fact that he's moved again and has a new job. He does tell her it's the most he's enjoyed any job he's ever had. He wants to tell her it's even better than working in the armorer's shop or the lab in Glasgow, but knows he can't say much more.

He's getting paid to create things. All kinds of weapon systems. Every week it's a new challenge that Clarke brings him. Sometimes it's converting shotguns and hunting rifles like he has been doing for the last seven months, other days it's designing entirely new anti-aircraft weapons. Some days he gets to work on his night scope. Other days he's ordered to develop a new floating mine system. Major Coulson visits him each month. Fitz knows no more about who exactly the American officer is than he did in January. All he can tell is is that he's very interested in the work Fitz is doing and if Fitz needs any materials, no matter how outrageous, all he has to do is ask the Major.

Despite only seeing him once a month, he feels a sort of partnership and familiarity he's confident a private shouldn't with an officer of his rank. The Major asks about more than just how his projects are going. He wants to know what he does when he's not working, how he likes the city, what he does in his free time. Fitz admits that mostly he just reads books, writes letters, and thinks of new designs.

"What about your family?"

"Not much to know," Fitz dismisses. "Mum lives in Glasgow. Dad's with the Black Watch."

"What's the Black Watch?" Unsure whether the Major is playing dumb or, more likely, just ignorant about the British military, Fitz informs him that it's one of the most famous Jock regiments. "Regular Army or Territorial?"

"Regular."

"So your dad's always been a military man?"

"Aye, he was a lieutenant at the Somme," Fitz mutters.

"Is that why you joined a line unit?" The inquiry reminds him of the tense conversation with Jemma in Sheffield about why he'd joined the infantry. "You said you joined before the war began in, what, '38? '39?"

"Just wanted to do my part," Fitz shrugs and gives his usual answer. "Knew war was coming."

"Well, this is clearly where you're meant to be." The major claps Fitz on the shoulder and exits the workshop. "I'll be back next month!"

Fitz comes to look forward to the visits. The major brings more than just requests. He brings materials Fitz requests along with detailed information about American activity in the Pacific. Sometimes the equipment he asks Fitz to design is clearly meant for jungle warfare. Sometimes it looks like it's meant for the desert. Sometimes it's schematics of a missile and other times an amphibious tank. He wonders who he is really designing the equipment for, but he doesn't dare ask questions. He's gotten good at that.

The only problem with his posting in Edinburgh is that mail is slower to get to him here. They only bring it once a month, but each month there's always a giant stack of letters from Jemma. She has met an American too. It takes over five weeks of being jealous over both Milton and Bobbi before he learns that the latter is a woman in the U.S Navy who has come to work with them.

Jemma's letters drip with admiration for the woman who speaks five languages and knows self-defense the same way his letters probably speak about for the kindley American officer that brings Fitz chocolate alongside containers of cesium and aluminum alloy.

He drops enough clues about where he is that she knows he is in Edinburgh. She asks how much it has changed since he was in university and what is still familiar. He knows she probably wants to ask about his work as badly as he wants to ask about hers, but simply says she's happy he's doing what he loves.

She mentions her upcoming holiday in every letter. One week she wants to show Bobbi London. The next she has a young coworker, who is scarcely more than a child, traveling to Scotland alone to visit family. The name of her colleague isn't one he has ever heard before and it all seems too fortuitous. Her young colleague doesn't want to travel alone. Bobbi wants to see Scotland. He doesn't know how much is Jemma's own intervention and how much is fate, but he has to read the letter four times over to make sure he reads it correctly.

She's coming to Edinburgh.


End file.
